


Seeing (Or In Dean Winchester's Case, Meeting) Is Believing

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: But that isn't new, Castiel is soft for Dean, Crappy Motel Rooms, Dean Winchester is Protective of Sam Winchester, Dean's first time praying, Fluff, John Winchester being a rather terrible father, M/M, Praying Dean Winchester, Praying to Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Sick Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: Dean Winchester doesn't believe in angels.Then he meets one with deep blue eyes and perpetually ruffled dark hair.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 127





	Seeing (Or In Dean Winchester's Case, Meeting) Is Believing

Dean Winchester is young; a child still carrying baby fat on his cheeks, eyes wide and curious in the way of not having seen much of the world. He doesn’t believe in angels, not even a little.

But John had just stepped out on a hunt two days ago and Sam is sick.

Dean doesn’t believe in angels, but he’s desperate. He remembers his mother cooing  _ angels are watching over you, _ and a tiny timid part of him wonders if it’s true; he’d never believed in ghosts before he’d seen and fought one, so maybe angels also exist? For the first time, Dean hopes.

Slowly, he gets down on his knees, next to small Sammy sweating and writhing and whimpering weakly in his fitful sleep on the motel bed, clasping his hands together. Just as he’s seen on the television, Dean bows his head, closes his eyes, and prays. He prays — knows it’s selfish to ask when he hasn’t even considered the idea until now, wishes he wasn’t so weak and so powerless — to the angel his mother used to say watches over him.

He prays, for even just a little help. Not for himself — even if his stomach has been empty for the past 20 hours and he hasn’t slept for at least the exact same stretch of time — he knows he can’t be so greedy. For Sammy. Dean prays for his innocent baby brother, who doesn’t yet know about the terrible monsters lurking in the shadows of the world, who naively wonders why their father leaves so abruptly all the time for “work,” who is still young enough to whine and complain whenever he’s presented with plain oatmeal instead of Lucky Charms. He prays, for someone to ease Sam’s pain, even just the slightest.

John had left them with a handful of bills that didn’t even cover the price of  _ food _ for two growing children. It wouldn’t be near close enough to afford even the cheapest over the counter medicine for illness. As it is, any sort of health care item is outrageously overpriced at the motel and any of the gas stations nearby, leaving Dean with next to nothing for options.

The only thing the motel had to offer without any extra price tags were threadbare towels and Dean’s trying his best, armed with the softest one he could find and the coldest water he could get from the wobbly tap in the bathroom. But he doesn’t know what else to do, far too young and inexperienced to know what Sam might be sick with. Dean only knows he needs to help cool the high fever and it doesn’t seem to be working at all despite his earnest efforts, panic leaving him distressed and frantic.

So he’d decided to pray.

Nothing happens. Dean wilts, but he didn’t know what he had been expecting. For the skies to part and an angel to descend from the heavens? There’s no such thing. But at least he’s tried praying. Dean figures his mother would probably have been proud of him for trying to believe.

He rinses the towel again with water cold enough to leave his fingers numb, scurrying back to place it on Sam’s sweaty forehead. Despondent, Dean kneels by the bed, settling down with his elbows digging into the edge of the cheap mattress to watch Sam for the rest of the night.

He jolts awake to the sensation of a bony elbow digging into his side. “Wha—”

“Dean,” Sam chirps, grinning widely before rolling clumsily in the other direction off the bed and scampering to the bathroom, immediately working on brushing his teeth.

Blinking heavily, Dean sits up, frowning drowsily. When had he fallen asleep? He can’t remember ever getting on any bed, not to mention the one Sam had been asleep on.

When Dean turns his bewildered gaze to the bathroom, Sam waves cheerfully with his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. Behind him hangs the towel that Dean swears he’d used for Sam, dry and pristine.

The memory of Sam being sick feels like a distant dream. And like some miracle, John also returns from what should have been a week long hunt with a tired but accomplished smile and enough fast food to fill their bellies. Dean doesn’t know if all this seemingly good fortune had been the result of his prayer, but he silently sends his heartfelt gratitude to the sky all the same, and doesn’t pray again.

Dean Winchester is young; a child still carrying baby fat on his cheeks, eyes wide and curious in the way of not having seen much of the world. He doesn’t believe in angels.

\---

Castiel appears in the motel room with a soft swish of feathers. He observes Dean for a long moment; unnaturally bright emerald eyes stare back, glazed and just barely focused.

“Dean. You do not appear to be well.”

Dean manages a soft snort.  _ Yeah— Also not feeling too well, _ he doesn’t say.

Castiel tilts his head to one side with a slight frown.

Coughing weakly, Dean forces himself to croak a single syllable. “Cas.”

“Would you like me to heal you?”

The faint upward curl at the edges of Dean’s parted lips is distinctly fond.  _ Ain’t injured, buddy. _

Castiel’s frown deepens.

“C’n you…” Dean screws his face up like he’s in pain, pausing to pant a few laboured breaths. A bead of sweat rolls across his temple to soak into his hair.  _ Can’t do a damn thing when I’m laid up like this. _ “Watch… Sammy?”

The reply is immediate, not a single moment of hesitation. “Of course.”

Dean’s long, slow exhale is relieved.

True to his word, Castiel carefully moves into the area between Sam and Dean’s beds, carpet muffling his footsteps. Whatever it is, it must be serious, to be able to put the world’s top two hunters out of commission.

Sam is on his side, facing Dean, one arm shoved beneath the pillow under his head. He’s perfectly still — aside from his harsh breathing — and Castiel notices he’s also perspiring rather abundantly, long hair sticking to his temples and neck in damp clumps. That’s never really a good sign.

Castiel reaches out to rest the very tips of his first two fingers against Sam’s overheated forehead, light as a feather, delicately sending a tiny portion of his grace to skim just under Sam’s skin on a search for anything requiring repair. As expected, he doesn’t find a single injury. Cellular level, then; he’ll have to focus and dive deeper.

Narrowing his eyes in concentration, Castiel tries again. He’s done this before — remembers a moment from what’s likely much more than a decade ago — and he feels it temporarily drain some energy from part of his grace as he spreads it thin, forcing it to seek and specifically terminate the unwanted intruders.

Not all of it, of course. Castiel yanks his grace back after it has wreaked irreparable damage, leaving behind only the weakest of the invaders in a population so small, it would match the amount humans injected themselves with. Sam’s immune system will have no problem wiping out the stragglers in a handful of hours, and he’d gain experience along with antibodies for any future encounters of this particular nasty.

When Castiel withdraws his hand, Sam’s fever is lowering back to a healthy normal temperature, breathing going soft and steady. Every muscle in his body is relaxed on the bed, the tension they had previously carried only realized by its absence. Sam makes a quiet sound in his sleep and nuzzles his pillow restlessly, settling only after he’s stretched the arm under his pillow to dangle into the space between the two beds. His hand just narrowly misses bumping into Castiel’s leg; he  _ is _ standing rather close to Sam, Castiel notes as he steps back.

The younger Winchester is healthy again, so Castiel turns — both his attention and his physical body — to the elder.

Dean has seemingly managed to sink into a fitful sleep; his brows are furrowed, each breath a low shaky rasp. Castiel repeats what he’d done for Sam, watching as Dean sighs an airy sound of relief and his pained expression is gradually replaced by a serene one.

Persuaded rather easily by an urge to watch over the Winchesters, Castiel silently moves one of the chairs by the table to sit right in the gap between the two motel beds. He alternates from staring at the frankly rather hideous design of the wallpaper plastered all over the room, to sneaking a handful of guilty glances at Dean. The hunter has expressed his dislike for being watched in his sleep quite vehemently countless times, so Castiel resolves to stop being “creepy” by watching Sam for a moment instead.

Castiel finds it rather interesting how Sam — with longer limbs and a larger build than his brother — sleeps, all curled up around his pillow, squeezed into a shape much smaller than anyone would expect possible from a man of such size. He’s noticed, during his time spent around the Winchester brothers, that the two of them subconsciously act their ages around each other; Dean constantly stands tall between his brother and any threats like he’s still the one with more height, and Sam will be slightly slouched a few paces behind his brother despite being taller. It’s endearing, really.

Frowning absently, Castiel reluctantly forces away the desire to have Dean back within his sight, shifting his gaze to the window on the far wall behind Sam, with curtains just think enough to allow only the faintest filtered glow of moonlight through. The silence is thick, made less suffocating by the quiet steady breathing of Sam and Dean asleep; Castiel finds himself enjoying it, basking in the tranquility and stillness contrasted next to the hustle and bustle of waking hours, inexplicably happy with the tangible proof of the Winchesters resting and recuperating.

Fabric rustles with movement. Castiel doesn’t even attempt to resist its siren song.

Dean blinks slowly in the darkness, unguarded and sleep soft, sheets twisted around his legs.

“Mom was right—”

Castiel doesn’t reply — it sounds as if Dean’s talking to himself — but he does tilt his head to one side, listening.

Just as abruptly as he’d woken up, Dean has his eyes closed again. “Angel watching over me,” he murmurs on a sigh as his body goes lax with sleep. He doesn’t see the tender adoring smile he receives in response to his words.

Dean Winchester is no longer a child; he’s firm muscles and broad shoulders, calloused hands from wielding weapons and building things. He’s the warm, rich scent of coffee and leather, emerald eyes tired with having seen too much of the world. He doesn’t believe in angels, just the one.

**Author's Note:**

> my theory is we never see the Winchesters sick because Cas would never let that happen, just imagine Dean calling Cas all frantic
> 
> Dean: Cas, we can’t find the hex bag, could use your help  
> Cas: there is no hex bag  
> Dean: explain why we feel like we're dying  
> Cas: dy—


End file.
